


the birds and the bees are getting older now (there's a cold breeze blowing over my soul)

by girlsarewolves



Series: exchanges [15]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Aftermath of mutually nonconsensual sex pollen, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Dirty Talk, Dirty Thoughts, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Fic Exchange, Gratuitous Smut, Morning After, Mutual Non-Con, Other relationships mentioned - Freeform, Post-S3 Billy Lives AU, Sex Pollen, Sex Pollen Gives Victims Temporary Amnesia So They Can't Remember Why They Shouldn't Have Sex, Sloppy Makeouts, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-09-26 18:06:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20393908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlsarewolves/pseuds/girlsarewolves
Summary: “Wheeler?”“Morning to you too, Billy.”“What the hell happened last night?”Frankly, Nancy would like to know the answer to that question as well.





	the birds and the bees are getting older now (there's a cold breeze blowing over my soul)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Etnoe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etnoe/gifts).

> There are references to past Steve/Nancy and current Jonathan/Nancy, but it's very minor so I didn't want to actually tag them. To my reader, I hope you enjoy!

* * *

Sunlight is glowing fleshy red through Nancy’s eyelids. She’d roll over, but something is keeping her trapped there, pinned down on her stomach. So she tries turning her head which works, and buries her face in the pillow - and feels another face pressing to her cheek and ear. 

It’s mostly a nose and warm, steady breathing that itches her skin, causes some of her hair to tickle at her neck.

This makes no sense. Jonathan is in Maine. Steve is probably crashing at Robin’s, like he so often does after they work the closing shift and have to open too - she remembers that, because she remembers how she acted like it was no big deal, like she didn’t care that she couldn’t be with either of her boys to bring in the new year even while her heart sank at the news he had to work.

So it’s not Jonathan. It’s not Steve.

Nancy could turn her head towards the face, open her eyes, find out - but she’s honestly a little terrified and very hungover and doesn’t have the nerve or energy to yet. She tries racking her brain some more instead, tries to recollect the events of New Year's Eve and figure out who it is that’s laying half beside and half on top of her.

Everything's so...blurry. There are bits and pieces of yesterday and last night, but it’s like looking outside when there’s a thick fog hanging in the air. Everything is just shapes and blobs of light, nothing definable, and in some cases just darkness and shadows.

She remembers Mike ditching to spend New Year’s Eve with Lucas and Dustin and Max at Lucas’, participating in Erica Sinclair’s “new year campaign” of Dungeons and Dragons, something different to keep him occupied and help him cope with the people missing from his life. She couldn’t blame him, she felt the same. She remembers her mom being annoyed, her dad already asleep in his chair, and the feeling of being stuck with nothing to distract her from how lonely she felt.

Party. She went to the party, didn’t she?

Why on earth would she have done something so stupid? Willingly put herself out there, alone, where all her former high school peers - mainly Tommy and his friends - could mock her and also remind her how lonely she’s been?

Probably because she was desperate and badly wanted to drown her sorrows in alcohol, which, she knew from experience was a bad idea, but she’s fairly certain now that she went ahead with it anyway.

Except she doesn’t remember the party. Like, at all. That infamous Halloween bash, she could remember some of it - most of it, really - as far as what happened before she started downing “pure fuel” like her life depended on it. Last night is still a total fog of unrecognizable shapes and shadows.

She needs to face up to her drunken mistake and see who she wound up with. She’s pretty confident even black out drunk Nancy wouldn’t be drunk enough to go to bed with Tommy, so there’s that small comfort, but there are plenty of other regrets that could be sleeping in her bed. Or...wait, is she even in her own room?

Nancy moans. She needs to open her eyes. But her head _ hurts _, more than any other hangover she’s had before, worse than the morning after Halloween - and she’s starting to panic over how much of a fool she made of herself and how many regrets she’s going to be confronted with and not have any corresponding memories of.

Shit.

Grimacing as she becomes more awake and more aware of how sore she is and how much her head is aching and how movement aggravates the pain, Nancy manages to turn her head fully towards the person beside her. 

Opening her eyes is another feat entirely. She blinks and even turned away from the window, it's still too bright in the room. She makes herself keep blinking, though. Blinks and blinks until her eyes are adjusted enough to how bright it is that they can move on to trying to focus. Blinks more and keeps them open longer each time. She can make out blond or light brown curls and a boyish face. She’d already figured she was with a guy, from the lack of boobs pressing into her back and arm, but the confirmation is still welcome.

Nancy does not want her first time with a girl to happen when she’s blackout drunk and can’t remember any of it. 

If she’s ever with a girl, anyway. She’s still not sure about that.

The throbbing pain in her head doesn’t go away, but it does settle a little once her eyes are more adjusted to the brightness and she’s still again for a minute. Her vision finally starts to take in more details, and that’s when her bed mate starts to stir, groaning and grimacing in what Nancy suspects is a pain similar to her own.

Blue eyes open and squint over at her.

Regret and horror drop Nancy’s heart down into the pit of her stomach as she finally realizes who she’s naked in bed with and - judging by where and how her body aches - had sex with. She watches as confusion and realization cross his face, too.

“Wheeler?”

“Morning to you too, Billy.”

“What the fuck happened last night?”

Frankly, Nancy would like to know the answer to that question as well.

* * *

She’s miserable. She thought a party would be loud enough and chaotic enough - and liquored up enough - to distract her from her misery and how much she misses Jonathan and how much it sucks that she can barely spend time with Steve anymore and how much Barb has been on her mind again lately. But instead it’s just giving her a headache to go along with her misery. The spiked punch is lacking, and everyone’s dancing just jostles her around, and Nancy is painfully aware that she graduated with barely any friends. 

This was a mistake.

Nancy finishes her latest cup of punch and just tosses the cup in the general direction of a trash can. She shoulders her way through the crowd, towards the chair where she discarded her jacket - this isn’t worth it. She’d rather just be walking home in the cold, alone, to ring in the new year than do it, lonely, at a party full of people she couldn’t stand and who never liked her.

“Aww, what’s the matter, Nance? Couldn’t find anyone sad enough to fuck?” Tommy H slurs at her when he takes notice of her rummaging through the pile of coats. “Maybe you should see if Hargrove is in the mood, Cali boy’s been moping about like Byers since he got outta the hospital.”

_ Go to hell _, Tommy, she wants to spit at him. But Nancy has learned that Tommy loves it when you engage with him, when you let him know he’s riled you up and gotten under your skin.

So Nancy clenches her jaw, grabs her now found jacket, and walks towards the door. As tempting as it is to tear into Steve’s ex-friend, she knows nothing she says will get to him. She also knows acting like she didn’t hear or doesn’t care what he says - that will. She slams the door behind her as he starts to launch into fouler-mouthed insults. 

“Fuck a cactus, Tommy,” she mutters now that he won’t hear her and get any satisfaction out of it.

Someone to her left laughs, and when Nancy looks over, she sees none other than Billy Hargrove. His face is mostly shadowed, standing just outside the circle of light provided by the door lamp, a blunt hanging from his lips. “Yeah, he’s a dick. Not that I’m one to talk.” He reaches up and takes the blunt from his mouth, smoke blowing out in tendrils that curl and mix with his visible breath. He holds his hand out into the light. “Want a hit?”

Nancy doesn’t smoke. Or do drugs. She gets plastered. Or exposes government conspiracies. But her head is killing her, alcohol isn’t doing a damn thing, and she’s lonely, so why the fuck not?

“Sure.” She takes the offered blunt and brings it to her lips. Inhales and makes a face, because weed smells and tastes disgusting - but the buzz of it mixes with the buzz of alcohol she already has, and makes her feel warm despite the cold. “Thanks.”

Billy shrugs, takes the blunt back, and inhales again. “Figured you’d be with King Steve on a night like tonight. Or outta town, visiting the Byers or something.”

“Well, I’m not.” Nancy doesn’t want to talk about that with Billy Hargrove. Even if he’s a shell of his former self, even if he’s quiet and withdrawn and still prone to lashing out but now immediately recoils and sometimes apologizes or just storms off to hide and wallow in his guilt. Even if he knows now all the crazy shit that’s gone down in Hawkins, all the insanity that she and her brother and their friends have been through, can understand better than anyone else at this stupid party.

He’s still Billy Hargrove, and she’s still Nancy Wheeler, and they aren’t friends.

“Just trying to make small talk,” he says, backing off. “Party a letdown for you, too?”

“It’s not much of a party when you only know some of the people, and the ones you know, you either hate or have zero feelings towards, and drinking just gives you a splitting headache.”

“Yeah, well, they said alcohol is technically a depressant.”

“And yet we still keep trying to drown our sorrows in it, don’t we?” Nancy smiles. It might be a little bitter. She buries her hands in the pockets of her jeans so her fingers don’t freeze. She’s just glad it hasn’t snowed yet.

Billy snorts, smoke coming out his nostrils. “Yeah, like a bunch of idiots who don’t learn.” He might be a little bitter, too. “You heading home?”

“Yeah. I thought maybe this would be better than being home and being miserable, but at least at home I could get some peace and quiet.” She starts to turn away, then hovers there a moment, aware that Billy is watching her, waiting on whatever it is she’s about to do or say before he pipes up again. “Happy New Year.” 

It sounds lame, especially with the context of everything that’s happened - and that each year seems to get more and more chaotic. But she feels that maybe they need that wish for a happy new year more than ever.

“You too, Wheeler.”

Nancy musters a slightly less bitter smile and waves, awkward, before shoving her hand back into her pocket and finally turning to leave. She’s almost to the end of the driveway when she hears the footsteps coming up behind her. She glances back to see Billy, sans blunt, jogging slightly to catch up.

“It’s cold, and dark, and this town is nuts. Let me walk with you.” There’s something in his eyes, something like panic, and Nancy remembers his face when he found out about Heather and the others that were flayed, that he was the only one to survive its hold. She remembers hearing Max talk about how Billy doesn’t go out much at night alone anymore, or at all, and she wonders if he was at this party for similar reasons as herself. 

She wonders if he wants to walk her home for his sake as well as her own.

“It’s quite a walk.”

Billy shrugs. “I’d offer you a ride, but I kind of totaled my car after this chick shot it up.”

Nancy laughs a little. “Funny, a guy almost ran me over and I had to shoot up his car.” She pauses, then, “No hard feelings though.”

He snorts again, shrugs. “Wouldn’t blame you if there were.” He falls into rhythm with her pace, that swagger he used to have gone. There’s a tension to his shoulders that didn’t used to be there. Billy Hargrove used to want to appear indifferent and aloof, too cool for school, like he didn’t have a care in the world and sure as hell didn’t have a shitty home life. Now he had too much to cope with to bother with the bad boy act half the time.

“As much as an asshole you can be, you aren’t a killer. That was the Mindflayer.” 

Nancy knows that guilt though - that irrational self-loathing that doesn’t go away despite all the logic and comfort you throw at it. That gnawing feeling that really, it is your fault. You were too selfish, too weak, too stupid, too wrapped up in your own world, and that’s what let the bad things happen. You let the bad things happen.

As bad as it was - and sometimes still could be - for her about Barb, she can’t imagine how much worse it must be for Billy, who remembers his body being used to hurt and maim and kill and sacrifice. Who remembers the harm the Mindflayer caused through him, the fear in its victims faces and voices before it took over.

“I’m not a good person, Wheeler. Haven’t been for years. Maybe I wasn’t a killer, but...how much of that violence was that monster and how much of it was me?”

He sounds haunted then, more somber and grave than she’s ever heard him be.

And, deep down, she can’t blame him for thinking that way. She’s heard stories from Steve and Max and Mike and his friends. She knows that even if Billy’s dad helped turn him into a violent asshole, it doesn’t change the fact that Billy has been a violent asshole since before they moved to Hawkins. 

In a way he was a great choice for the Mindflayer to hijack as its primary puppet, the shadow monster full of rage and resentment at a handful of kids and even fewer adults being able to stop it from crossing over completely.

“Maybe that’s true,” Nancy replies after a moment, voice soft. “But the Mindflayer was remorseless, and recently, Billy Hargrove has been having a lot of remorse he’s dealing with. So, maybe some of the violence was you, but it wasn’t your choice. It wasn’t what you really wanted.”

Billy is quiet, tense. His jaw is clenched, lips pressed into a hard line. He looks like he wants to argue - maybe he wants someone to blame him, tell him it’s all his fault, tell him he’s a fuck up. Maybe he wants to hear it from someone besides his dad and his own mind, so convinced of it but needing it confirmed by an outside source. Maybe he isn’t sure what to do with someone telling him the opposite.

Or maybe she just sucks at comforting. Nancy has never really been the nurturing type.

Or maybe Billy wants someone to rug sweep everything away, tell him none of it is his fault, and he’s not a bad person, never has been. Truth is, Billy isn’t entirely unreadable, but he’s more complicated than he seems, and Nancy doesn’t know him nearly well enough to be able to confidently read him.

They’re both quiet for the next few minutes, putting another block between them and the party house behind them. The night is quiet, half the houses deserted, and the few that aren’t, well, it’s too early for shouts of happy new year, and Hawkins has been a lot quieter since July and so many casualties and so many missing persons and so many shady secrets exposed or false revelations put out there to cover up the real ones. There’s no breeze, no birds, no barking - it’s almost too quiet.

It reminds Nancy of another night out in the woods, a similar feeling hanging in her gut, making the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. 

“Let’s walk faster,” she ends up saying, picking up her pace. She glances at Billy, can see something in his eyes that she’s pretty sure is the same fear creeping in on him that she’s fighting off.

That’s when they hear it. A chittering sound, echoing off the stillness of the night.

Nancy freezes. 

Billy stretches his arm out, puts it around her.

“That came from the woods.” Nancy swallows, reflexively grabbing Billy’s arm over her front. She’s ready to bolt, but she thinks maybe if they’re quiet and move slow, whatever it is out there won’t notice them - if it hasn’t already.

Billy nods. He’s frozen in place, too, though, and doesn’t even move when Nancy tugs. He’s paralyzed by the sound, that _ chittering _ coming from somewhere among the trees. His eyes are glassy and unfocused, staring out towards the sound but not really looking at all - he’s somewhere else.

“Billy...Billy, it’s okay,” Nancy whispers. She grabs his hand, squeezes, tries to be comforting. “We just need to move slow and get out of here.”

He nods again. Swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing slowly. 

The chittering stops. The echo of it dies off.

All Nancy hears is their labored, panicked breathing, puffing out hot and misty in the cold air. “Come on, let’s go. Let’s just go.” She tugs again and this time Billy moves along with her, his movements stiff and stilted, but he’s following along so she isn’t complaining. Every step that she doesn’t hear that sound, she feels a little more comfortable moving faster, and soon Billy is easily keeping up again.

“What the hell was that?” Billy keeps looking over his shoulder in the direction of where the noise came from.

“I have no idea. Let’s just get out of here.”

Billy starts to open his mouth - but the only sound is the chittering, except there’s more of it, as though whatever is making that sound, there’s another, several, dozens. It’s almost like crickets, a swarm of whatever is making that sound filling up the woods. 

Panic kicks in the flight instinct in both of them this time. The chittering follows them as they run, continuing to multiply, the sound almost deafening to the point that Nancy doesn’t understand why people aren’t coming out to see what that strange commotion is, but all the people in their homes stay hidden away inside - maybe they hear it and are too afraid to let their curiosity get the better of them, after all Hawkins is dangerous these days.

They reach the corner intersection to turn down her street, but the sound catches up and something slithers out, winding its way across the road. It starts to grow in thickness, spreading out - some kind of vine, growing right there in front of them at super speed. 

Nancy stares in horror, watching a pod form and bulge, growing to the size of a basketball almost - and then it vibrates..._ chittering _.

“Oh, shit,” they say in almost perfect unison as they stand there helplessly, watching in horror as the pod then blooms, unfurling and hissing as it lets out some kind of gas or pollen. It’s a yellowish spray the pod coughs out, spitting it towards them. The smell of it is cloyingly sweet and immediately intoxicating.

Nancy stumbles. She can’t get over how warm she feels - flushed, even. She blinks away the sudden fog that clouds her mind and looks at Billy beside her, who seems to be doing the same. She opens her mouth - but she has no idea what she intends to say, and it doesn’t even matter. All she lets out is a moan.

* * *

They’re laying on their backs, both racking their brains through the thick haze of their memories. So far they have only come to a few very basic and obvious conclusions - ones that don’t require any memories to confirm.

One - they had sex. Probably a lot of it, judging by how sore and sticky they are and just how much the room smells of body sweat and come. Two - they’re in what is very obviously a motel room, so they knew what they were doing, and somehow despite neither of them being into the other, their drunken selves decided they wanted to have lots of - probably - loud sex and did not want their families to know.

Or they were too impatient. Maybe that. Nancy isn’t sure which option she prefers.

Three - their heads are killing them. Like, worst hangover headaches, ever, and they can’t even move enough to get up and get water from the sink.

So they just lay there, continuously swallowing and licking at their mouths and lips in a somewhat vain attempt at alleviating the dryness. Billy has an arm draped over his eyes, while Nancy settles for tugging the sheet up over her face. 

Despite the obvious reality that she had sex with Hargrove and slept next to him completely naked, she feels vulnerable and exposed and not at all comfortable with him seeing any more of her than usual. She hates this feeling - that missing space of her actions, what she did with her body and let someone else do to her. It’s a gross thought, but she can’t help the internal whispers of shame, a little voice calling her sullied and dirty. 

It’s bullshit, but it nags at her all the same.

“...this doesn’t even make sense, I didn’t drink last night,” Billy groggily mutters - a welcome distraction from her thoughts. “I just smoked some weed, and that never gives me a headache. And sex never gives me headaches, what the fuck.” He keeps saying that, and Nancy wants to tell him to stop repeating that, except she feels the same way.

What the _ fuck _.

“And I vaguely remember us leaving, and...I don’t think I was drunk. Or high.” She was buzzed. She remembers feeling buzzed and savoring the feelings of warmth that the liquor and pot had given her inside. She does not remember when she got drunk or stoned or whatever caused her this headache and to check into a motel room with Billy Hargrove and have enough sex that she felt sorer than she’d felt after her first time.

It isn’t a bad sore. She doesn’t think he forced her. It isn’t pain - besides her head - but her body just feels exhausted, worn out. In a good way, sort of.

Except she can’t remember what they did, if they used protection, why they did it - why _ she _ did it.

“What the fuck.” It comes from her this time. The headache is starting to ease up. Not much - but enough that she feels like she might be able to check for condoms, for any bottles or blunts, without vomiting or doubling over. Briefly she considers staying in the bed, sheet pulled up over her head, but Nancy hates the inaction. Whatever happened, even being a mistake, she has nothing to be ashamed of, and she sure as hell shouldn’t be ashamed of her own body to the point that she stays covered up and simpering in bed. That isn’t her. Not to mention how badly she needs water. Half her problem could be dehydration. 

Fuck it. He got an eyeful last night, and he’ll get an eyeful this morning. 

Finally she moves - slowly, carefully - and slides her legs over the edge of the bed, using that to help her sit up. A hiss of pain rushes out of her. The room spins. Maybe it isn’t in a good way after all, the exhaustion and soreness.

A warm hand lays on her shoulder. “Hey, don’t fall.” Billy holds her steady, keeps her from falling over or backwards or to the side, all of which feel like she could do without him.

“Thanks.” 

“What are you doing?”

“I need to know if we used protection. And I could really use a glass of water.” Nancy is vaguely aware that they’re both whispering. It still sounds so loud. Even moving is loud. She finally gathers the strength and focus to stand - her body aches in protest, well and truly worked out from last night - and looks around. 

_ Slowly. _

She doesn’t want things to start spinning again and take a dive now that she’s upright and doesn’t have Billy to hold her steady.

“Uh, unless you were packing rubbers last night, we did not use protection. I wasn’t looking to get laid, and there’s no way drunk or stoned me would ever think of that. Pretty sure I could distract drunk or stoned you from that fact, too,” Billy says, and has the decency to sound a little ashamed. At least he’s honest?

“Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.” Thank fuck she’s on the pill. She makes a mental note to go get tested. Not that she thinks Billy has any STDs, but...he does have a reputation, and she wants to be sure. Especially after that brutal bit of honesty.

Billy is quiet for a minute. He’s lowered his arm that was across his face to block out the light and just watches her, pensive. “I was clean when I was in the hospital. Used protection any time since. And don’t be worried about swimmers. I took care of that problem before they let me out.” His voice is hushed, thoughtful. A little angry.

Nancy catches onto what he’s saying, she thinks. She’s pretty sure she can figure out why, too. She feels like she should say something, anything - ‘_ you’re not like him _ ’ or ‘ _ you’re not your father _’ but she isn’t sure how he’d take it, and it’s not really her place. She doesn’t know Billy that well, and maybe he had other reasons, maybe it really was the right choice for him. So she opts for a quiet, “Got it,” and leaves it at that. “Want some water?”

“Yeah. Water sounds good.”

The distance between her and the sink feels frustratingly vast as she slowly makes her way over to it, grabbing up two paper cups. She downs the first cup she fills and fills it up again, then the second, the water lukewarm and unpleasant - a faint, almost metallic aftertaste lingering in her mouth - but it’s like finding an oasis in a desert. It goes down with some discomfort the first couple of sips. 

Her mouth and throat a little more properly refreshed, Nancy can feel her headache easing a little. The room remains steady when she turns back towards the bed. Even her vision is a little clearer - focusing doesn’t feel like a strain. She takes in the mess of their clothes discarded right there near the door of the motel room, the bed cover hanging almost completely off the foot of the bed, the fitted sheet ridden up to expose a couple corners of the mattress.

Nancy downs her second cup of tap water.

There isn’t any sign of condoms or condom wrappers anywhere in the mess of the room, confirming what she already knows. 

Well, shit.

* * *

She’s burning up now. Back to a tree, Billy’s mouth on hers, Nancy feels like she’s in a feverish haze of unresolved need. It’s electric and delicious and torture all at once. She has half a mind to claw her own skin off. She thinks, vaguely, in the back of her mind, that this is unusual. She should go home and get as far away from Billy Hargrove as possible. 

As though on cue, his mouth drags down sloppy kisses over her jawline, leaving her gasping out a whine at the thought of leaving. Every time he kisses her, touches her, nibbles on her skin, it’s like butterflies in her stomach and lightning in her nerves. He leaves her tingling, itching for more.

There’s something wrong here. 

She’s never been this turned on before or so sensitive, and she thinks - again, vaguely, like her inner voice is faraway and muted - that she wouldn’t get so wound up over Billy. Nancy isn’t quite sure why there’s this nagging feeling at the back of her mind that something is wrong with this. It’s amazing, it’s blissful, it’s frustratingly _ not enough _.

“More,” she begs. She’s caught off guard by the sound of her own voice, how throaty and desperate the word comes out. She doesn’t talk much during sex - sometimes giving consent or encouragement or reassuring her lover that she’s okay, but she’s not a talker, she’s not a begger, she’s not the type to moan out commands. She’s still learning how she is during sex, to be honest, and Steve and Jonathan are both the same.

Billy, on the other hand, knows who is during sex. He’s all over her, hungry and prying at her, a greedy, sloppy mess that exudes confidence in what they are doing. There are plenty of stories about how good he is - that despite his tendency to fuck a girl and move on to the next, he’s a surprisingly considerate partner, even willing to go down more than any other boy from their high school - and already Nancy can tell it’s not just bloated egotistical rumors.

“Shit, Wheeler, I could fuck you right here,” he groans into her ear, those eager and greedy fingers on her hips, tugging their way under her jeans to grab at her bare flesh. “Swear I can smell you, baby.”

He’s probably right - Nancy’s underwear is soaked through, even she thinks she can smell herself. Her hips buck at the feeling of his hands grasping at her skin, sliding under her jeans as much as they’ll give, the tips of his fingers brushing over the top of her ass. She’s mewling at this point - mewling - and trying to grind against the obvious bulge he’s sporting.

They could fuck right there. It’s late. Nobody’s out there. Why not? She wants it, he wants it, and fuck, she feels like she could burst right now, but her body stubbornly refuses to, so maybe just getting their pants down enough so he could fuck her there against a tree barely five feet into the woods is what she needs.

Except the damn chittering won’t stop and it’s distracting - and if anyone did come out, well, she has enough coherent thought left to remember that she isn’t into being spied on.

“Not here,” she pants out. Her hands are under his shirt - when did she put her hands under his shirt? - and dragging down his chest, nails scraping over muscle and scars left from the Mindflayer.

Mindflayer. 

Something about that makes her almost pause, makes her question what they’re doing, makes her remember that there’s something off about this situation.

“Shit, then where? I wanna make you scream, and I am not doing that at either of our houses,” Billy growls against her pulse before biting down, making her cry out to emphasize his point. The pain and pressure of his teeth capturing her tender flesh between them followed immediately by his mouth gently suckling there is gasoline on the fire of pleasure building up in her. “Damn I miss my car right now.”

Nancy is struggling to form thoughts in her brain now and not act purely on instinct. She wants to tear her clothes off - his clothes off - and shove him to the ground and ride him until neither of them can feel anything anymore, until the tension in her body finally releases and sends her higher than she’s ever been before. She knows it’s going to be toe-curling good - boneless and spent and sore the next morning good - and she’s impatient for it. But she has enough restraint and self awareness to know that this is not where she wants to have that kind of sex. Or any sex. She’s come to hate the woods of Hawkins, all the dark and strange things that hide in its shadows, all the ghosts that haunt there.

“A motel. We can, we can go to my place. I’ll get my mom’s car.”

It’s a challenge to get entire sentences out. Billy keeps biting and suckling, overwhelming her with stimuli.

“Fuck it, next car we see, I’m hot-wiring that baby. Come on.” He says come on, like they’re moving to find a car, but instead they linger there. He plants his mouth back on hers and invades her with his tongue. Hands slip out from under her jeans, leaving goosebumps in his wake, and cradle her face.

_ Let’s go _ , she tries to say, but all that comes out is a whine. _ Let’s go _ , she tries and fails again, just pushing her tongue into his mouth. _ Let’s go _, another failure, she’s moaning as he pulls back to nip lightly on her lips, thumbs at the corners, and she licks at them. “Let’s go,” she pants out - finally - before he pushes a thumb into her mouth and stares with hooded eyes as she sucks on it.

“All right then. Let’s go.”

* * *

On the upside - downside? - the haze blanketing her memories of the previous night is thinning out as her headache eases up, which drinking water seems to do wonders for. She shuffles back over to the bed, handing Billy his own cup. 

“Shit.”

Billy is staring at her, and Nancy feels a pink flush warming her entire body as whatever comfort she had gained at not bothering to cover herself disappears. But he’s looking at one specific part of her, further down than her breasts, and there’s a look of shame on his face.

Nancy glances down to see purple and blue bruises in the shape of fingers peppered over her hips. Well that explains some of the soreness there. She finishes closing the distance to the bed and sits down, holding out the cup for Billy. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“...are either of us okay at this point, Wheeler?”

“Nancy. Please.” She doesn’t mean to snap, but the haze is lifting - giving her flashes, moments from the previous night that feel less like her own memories and more like dreams, or scenes from a movie she watched, not something she experienced herself. As that haze thins out, the numbness that settled in after the initial horror and confusion is easing up, too. “We had sex last night,” she went on, voice shaky. “We slept naked together. We’re still naked for crying out loud - please, just drop that too cool for school bullshit and call me Nancy.”

“Okay. Okay, Nancy.” The bed shifts and then he’s sitting up, sitting beside her. His hair is messier than she’s ever seen it. He looks confused and scared. It makes him look so much younger. “I’m not trying to act tough or distant. Just wasn’t sure you’d be comfortable being on a first name basis after...last night.”

Guilt blooms in her chest, tightens her throat. Why she feels guilty for snapping at Billy, she isn’t sure. She has every right to be frazzled and freaked and to not worry about his feelings - but maybe it isn’t guilt over one singular thing. Maybe it’s the shame over losing control of herself, maybe it’s the awful apprehension over telling Jonathan. The embarrassment over being so stupid and reckless that she had unprotected sex. The irrational fear that despite her birth control and his promise that he’s shooting blanks, she could get pregnant.

Arms are wrapping around her, pulling her into a solid chest. It registers to Nancy that she’s crying, her dam finally broken, and she lets Billy hold her, awkwardly patting her back. Lets him tell her it’s okay and tries so hard to believe him. Humiliation is a burning sensation under her skin, though, and she can only take his stilted attempt at comfort for so long before she pulls away. Hands angrily wiping at her eyes even as fresh tears keep spilling.

“I’m fine.” It’s an obvious lie. Her voice cracks when she says it. But she just keeps saying it while he places a hand on her shoulder. “I’m fine.”

* * *

Billy rents them the room, handles all the business in the lobby like a gentleman while Nancy waits in the stolen - borrowed - car. He glances over his shoulder at her every few seconds. She can make out the sight of his tongue dragging across his bottom lip when he stares for a moment longer and realization lights up his eyes.

Nancy is bobbing slightly in her seat. Anticipation and need are all coiled up in her belly. She can’t help but grind against the leather seat. Even her jeans are damp with sex. She almost has enough self-awareness to feel sorry for the vehicle’s owner, cause that car is going to smell like pussy for days. Part of her - most of her, if she’s being honest - wants to just pull Billy into the backseat when he’s back in the car, let him fuck her long and good in some stranger’s Buick.

But Nancy’s not the kind of girl who has sex in a car in the front of a motel parking lot where anyone could see.

And Billy Hargrove isn’t the kind of guy she fucks.

Why is that, again? Probably something stupid and shallow, doesn’t matter anymore.

Not when Nancy’s so pent up that she’s _ quivering _, body so taught with need it’s bordering on painful, and she can’t even remember why they didn’t have sex in the woods or in the car, and all she can think about is Billy touching her, kissing her, fucking her.

Billy stalks out of the lobby with a key in hand, hops back into the car and yanks her over for a kiss. “Hope you didn’t get yourself off in here without me, Wheeler.” His voice is low and breathy and an arousing combination of lust and frustration and annoyance. 

“Couldn’t,” she answers honestly and grabs one of his hands, pressing it between her legs. She wants him to feel how damp the denim is, wants him to know how wet she is for this. “Get me to the damn room already.” She almost tells him to fuck her right there. Just rip her clothes off like they’re in one of her mom’s stupid and cheesy romance novels, plant her on his lap, and make her ride him, let the motel clerk get an eyeful.

But while she can’t remember why they’ve never done this before or what her petty reasons for not having sex with him are - were - she does remember the humiliation of “all the right moves” and doesn’t want more rumors swirling around. She’s not some floozy, she’s not an easy lay, she’s not a “pole-hopper” despite the murmurs and whispers she heard throughout her last year of high school.

They’ll fuck in the privacy of some cheap motel, and Tommy H can just beg Billy for the details later, not get an earful from some front desk perv.

“Yes, ma’am,” Billy all but drawls out, flashing a grin that does little to hide the impatient and greedy look in his eyes. Swerves out of the spot by the lobby door and floors it around the back end of the building. 

Of course their room is at the end and on the other side - but the drive around gives her a good look at the mostly empty parking lot. 

Good. Nancy wants to scream tonight. 

It’s a blur from the car to the room. The moment they’re parked, Billy’s tugging her over and out through the driver side door, and she’s eagerly scrambling after. Her back is to the front of the room door, and she’s nibbling over his jaw while he fumbles with the keys, huffing in frustration when she keeps distracting him.

Nancy rubs her hand of the bulge of his jeans, can feel him twitching through the thick material, can get a sense of his size. She moans, wants it in her mouth, in her cunt - hell, maybe she’ll even let him fuck her ass, she’s so wired for it. Can’t help but laugh when he gets the door open and mutters, “Fucking finally,” as he rushes them in.

There are two full size beds and ugly wall art and scratchy carpet. It’s tacky and looks like it was decorated in the 60’s, but Nancy doesn’t care. It’s not the woods, it’s not the car, it’s not either of their houses full of nosy, prying, judging eyes and ears - and that makes it perfect.

Billy pins her to the inside of the door now, bites at the hollow of her neck, starts unbuttoning her jeans. Every time his fingers brush against her skin it’s like a jolt of electricity that goes straight to her cunt. His breathing is heavy and labored, so it’s easy to hear when it hitches - every time there’s skin on skin.

It’s thrilling to know he feels it too, that he’s just as affected as she is.

“Fuck me,” she moans, her fingers twisting in Billy’s hair. She’s not a talker, never really has been, but she’s pretty sure that’s going to chance tonight - she’s gonna whisper all the dirty things that she wants Billy to do to her. “I want to feel you inside me. Fuck, I wanna know what it feels like when you come, I want to see the look on your face.” 

That is definitely not like her. But it’s also true. She very much wants those things.

Judging by the way Billy groans and presses his face to her neck, a hand sliding under her unzipped jeans to rub over her soaked-through panties, he very much wants those things, too. “Holy shit, Wheeler, didn’t know you had that dirty of a mouth on you.” He says it against her ear, voice strained and thick. His fingers are rubbing and sending spikes if ecstasy racing through her. “Can’t wait to find out how how dirty it can get.”

Nancy’s mewling like a cat in heat. She sounds wanton in ways that almost unnerve her - or would, if she wasn’t so drunk on her own lust. Her hips are jerking, moving on pure instinct and need as he touches her. She has enough wits about her to smack his shoulder and gasp out, “My mouth doesn’t go anywhere near your dick without getting the same treatment from yours.” She normally isn’t quite so demanding - and fortunately, Jonathan and Steve were both considerate enough that they never pushed for what they weren’t willing to do themselves, and rumor has it Billy is amazing with his tongue. But it isn’t just making a demand, it’s also that her knees go weak at the thought of him putting his mouth on her cunt, tasting her need for him.

“I want to ride your face,” she blurts out - the words roll off her tongue as soon as the thought forms in her mind.

“_ Fucking shit _,” Billy grunts and slams his palm flat against the door. Slips two fingers under her panties. Presses them to her entrance, presses in. Groans when they sink in easy.

Nancy is whining and grabbing at him, holding on for dear life at the feel of two warm fingers inside her. She can feel her walls instinctively clenching around them, so sensitive, every move he makes lighting her up. “Not enough,” she gasps. She’s snug around his fingers, but it’s not what she really wants, not enough to satisfy the empty, aching feeling in her gut.

“I know, baby, but it will be soon.” Billy Hargove can coo, cause that’s what he’s doing, cooing in her ear, somewhere between teasing and desperate and reassuring. He pulls his fingers from her - kissing her to swallow up her moan of protest - and just shoves her jeans and panties down. “I’m gonna rock your world, Wheeler.”

“You better.”

He hisses - in annoyance, pleasure, frustration? - and grabs the bottom of her sweater, lifting it up until she has to take her hands off him. He gets her bra off faster than any other guy, tosses it aside, and then moans - _ moans _ \- when she gets his fly unzipped and her hand underneath his boxes, finally feeling the hot, heavy weight of his cock in her fingers.

“Maybe I’ll rock yours, too, _ Hargrove _,” she teases. Licks her lips, gasping softly when her thumb smooths over his tip and smears the bead of pre-come that’s leaking out. Savors the way his eyelids flutter and his head falls back in response. Savors all the animalistic noises he makes. She wants him naked and on his knees, wants him on his back on the bed, wants him breathless and begging for her forgiveness for ever thinking less of her and all the awful things he’d done - him, Billy, not the Mindflayer - and wants him earning that forgiveness with his mouth and tongue and fingers and cock.

She wonders if he likes to get fucked. Wonders if he’d let her. Let her push her fingers in and touch all his sensitive places until he’s a quivering, sticky mess. She wants to know if he’d beg her, if he’d writhe and moan and act like the wanton slut he likes to think all the girls he fucks are.

What has gotten into her? She never thinks like this. Never acts like this.

Why not, though? 

“Fuck this,” Billy grunts and hooks an arm around the back of her thighs, scooping her up enough to yank her pants and underwear off the rest of the way, guides her legs to wrap around his waist. His jeans are hanging loose from his hips, slipping further down whenever he moves. 

“Fuck _ me _ ,” Nancy hisses, her hand still stroking over his cock, pressing it against her cunt. Screw using their mouths, screw anymore foreplay - she wants him inside her, now. She angles his tip, holding him steady. Doesn’t even care that she’s screaming when she cries out, “Yes!” after he thrusts his hips forward, cock finally sliding in. All she cares about is that sweet sensation of him inside her, the glorious feeling of fullness chasing away the empty, achy need in her gut. It isn’t satisfaction, not yet, but it’s pressure, it’s a little relief to that craving in her body. She focuses on his presence inside her, squeezes her walls around him. Bites down on her lip as she thinks of all the pre-come leaking into her, how dirty that makes her feel, how much she _ likes _ it.

“Shit, Wheeler, shit...Nancy…” His voice starts as a groan and turns into something softer, needier. “So damn good.”

Capacity for speech takes a backseat, Nancy unable to focus on much of anything besides Billy fucking her, the jerk of his cock in and the slide of it almost fully out. All she’s able to get out is a strangled, incoherent moan as her fingers tug on his clothes - he’s overdressed, she wants him naked and exposed for her eyes and hands and mouth. She wants to tell him to get his fucking clothes off, but forming words is still too much for her lust-riddled brain to handle as he settles into a hard and fast rhythm that makes every sound coming out of her mouth hitch, turns it into something higher-pitched and wanton.

Fortunately though Billy gets the message. Smashes his mouth to hers and seems to swallow up every sound coming out of her while he fucks her there and keeps her pinned to the door so he can move his hands away. His shirt is a button up so he doesn’t even have to pull away to finally remove it.

Her hands are on his chest the moment she feels him sliding the shirt off. Fingers dragging downwards, raking over the scars left behind by the Mindflayer. She feels him tense, faltering for a moment, and soothingly smooths her palms over the marred flesh. Pads of her thumbs tracing gentle spirals outward until she’s holding onto his shoulders, fingers curling so her nails can dig in. she feels him relax, slipping easily back into his rhythm. She nibbles on his lower lip, gives him a gentle pain to take his mind off any phantom hurts that her touch might have brought back.

Billy growls into her mouth. It’s almost drowned out by the slap of their flesh, constant and quick, over and over, growing louder as sweat starts to dampen their skin.

The tension and pressure in her gut, fueled by the wet slide of his cock in her, the fullness of him inside her, builds and builds. How long have they been fucking now? Time feels distant and irrelevant. All that matters is the need, the craving that burns at her skin. Sometimes he presses into her at just the right angle that he brushes at her clit, sending electric jolts spreading out through her and finally to her center, tightening that coil of pleasure.

_ Fuck _ , she wants to come so _ bad _. It’s so good and so close that it borders on agony. Her legs are shaky. Focusing on holding them up, keeping them wrapped around him is becoming difficult.

Somewhere in the haze of everything, Nancy finally manages to gasp out, “Bed.”

Billy nods. “Bed sounds good. _ Fuck _.” He holds her to him and stumbles over towards the closer of the two beds. Spins and falls back so she’s on top and kicks off his jeans and boxers. It’s darker over here, because they never bothered turning on any lights, but even so Nancy can tell his eyes are dilated with lust so between that and the dimness of the room his eyes look near black. He helps her get settled, straddling him - one hand on her hip, one on her breast, fingers tweaking the nipple.

“Oh, fuck…” The word drags out, like she wants to say more but is still too lost in the moment and all the sensations and that’s the only word her brain is able to remember. That could very well be the case. But oh, fuck is accurate because oh, fuck, he feels so much deeper in this position, just shy of painful. Nancy has never been crazy about a cock so deep in her, has never understood the girls who like that edge of discomfort - but she’s too wrapped up in how badly she needs to come to remember that or really care. She just starts moving, rocking her hips at first, just savoring this new position and the new or different sensations it brings. But she’s impatient - so is Billy, judging by the way he squeezes her hip and tugs at her nipple, grunting wordlessly at her - and quickly starts to ride him. Her pace is face and unsteady, and if she had more awareness of anything besides sex, she’d know that her thighs are going to hate her in the morning.

Doesn’t matter. Her whole body hates the coiled tension in her gut that won’t just fucking pop already, hates it and loves it in a way that she’s never felt about sex before.

She’s never even felt much of anything when it came to nipple play before tonight.

It’s weird and wrong - and she won’t register that until the morning.

“Shit, you look so good bouncing on my dick, Nancy.” His voice is so much more boyish, breathy and higher-pitched with wonder and want and probably his own feelings of a frantic, frenzied need to come already. He says her name like it’s holy, and it makes her jolt, teetering on the edge so close she thinks this is finally it.

She slams her hips down, takes him in deep enough that it does hurt, and they’re both keening through gritted teeth - and it just keeps building up, tighter and tighter, raw and painful now.

“Dammit!” Nancy screams. She repeats the motion, repeat, repeat, but she can’t orgasm. She’s shaking with tears now. The noises bubbling up are all but sobs. She braces her hands on his chest, palms flat, and keeps trying to take him deeper, faster, harder - moves his hand on her breast to just above where they’re joined - anything that will finally give her release.

Billy is making strained grunts, his eyes squeezed shut and teeth grinding. He strokes her as soon as she guides his hand down, grips her hip with the other hand so tightly it’s going to bruise. “Fuck this,” he finally snaps and rolls them over.

Nancy cries loudly at this new angle, is a screaming mess when he moves her legs up to hook over his shoulders and just fucks into her without any rhythm. She reaches up to grip the headboard, mouth hanging open. She feels two fingers in her mouth, focuses her eyes up at the almost predatory look on Billy’s face, and sucks. Reaches down to stroke herself with trembling fingers while his hand there moves to hold onto her hand on the headboard, fingers laying between hers.

She isn’t sure what finally triggers it or who climaxes first. All she knows is finally - finally - all that pleasure and pain reaches its boiling point, for both of them, and they’re both screaming, jerking, grabbing at each other and holding on as they ride it out.

It’s white hot and earth-shattering. It feels like one of those mythical orgasms that exists only in wet dreams and bad romance novels. Sob after moan after gasp is wrung from her, leaving her breathless, body twitching and jerking with each spasm of her climax. It has never been that good, and if Nancy had the ability to think, she’d think to herself it will never be like this again, she’s sure of it.

Billy has her legs off his shoulders, holds them pressed to his sides and pulls his fingers from her mouth so he can kiss over her face, wet and sloppy and full of wordless groans and slurred fucks. His hips jerk, twitch, press into her rigidly for a moment, hot breaths hitting her cheek in heavy puffs. Face scrunched up, like he’s focusing on how good it feels and trying to hold onto it. Seconds pass, and he sags down on top of her, so spent his arms can’t hold his weight off her. He manages a weak roll - probably intended to put him on his back and her splayed across him, but they end up landing and remaining on their sides.

“...fuck.”

Nancy giggles, sleepily, her eyes already feeling heavy. “Mm, yeah, and it was great.”

A snort and then, “Just great? Wheeler, you and I both know that was amazing at the least and definitely way more in the mind-blowing category of sex.” His words are starting to slur together. He leans in and nuzzles her, nibbles on the spot below her earlobe - movements lazy, languid. “Think I’m gonna crash here, since we got this room for the night.”

Nancy nods, groggily fumbling around to lay stretched out beside him. “I’m gonna crash, too.” If he says anything in reply, she doesn’t hear it before she’s out cold.

* * *

The fog has cleared completely. The shock has worn off, a numbness came and went, and now Nancy is just standing in the shower as the hot water beats down on her, trying to numb herself again. The heat of it has left much of her skin bubblegum pink. She doesn’t care, she’s just happy that the water is near scalding.

Who knows how long that will last, though. This motel isn’t exactly known for being very satisfactory for more than a roof and a bed.

Billy is waiting his turn outside, still on the bed. He’d declined Nancy’s offer for first dibs - or her cautious and uncertain offer that they could just shower together to ensure they both got hot water. His jaw had clenched when she’d suggested that, eyes flicking away from hers, like he couldn’t look her in the eye when he said no. “Too crowded,” he said.

She’s grateful he’d done the decent thing. Grateful he’d picked up on her hesitancy, maybe sensed her need for a few minutes on her own to think, clear her head, have some privacy. She figures he probably needs the same thing.

The small, cheap bar of soap barely lathers when she finally grabs it, starts scrubbing away at the sticky and grimy remnants of their bedroom adventure last night. It’s better than nothing though, still helps clean it away, leaves a slimy residue on her skin that isn’t sex and sweat, so she’ll take it. Her hands guide it over her breasts and stomach and bruised hips, down her sides and her legs and between.

Bile rises up in her throat. She’s still sensitive, tender. But lust is the last thing her fingers brushing near there inspires. She was to vomit. She feels light-headed again. She’s been blackout drunk before, and this was - is - different. 

It isn’t that she had sex with Billy Hargrove - well, not completely. She might freak out over that, but not to the point of this panicking horror and shame and confusion. It’s that she cannot remember her thought process through any of it - she remembers it now, not clearly and not like it was something she actually lived through, but she can see him, pinning her to a tree. She can see him, leading her in the room. She can see her hands on his body, her legs up over his shoulders, she can even vaguely remember how it all felt.

But she doesn’t remember thinking, doesn’t remember her choices or decisions or how she felt emotionally - it’s just a few, phantom, physical sensations. Not any drunken emotions or reckless, uninhibited desires.

Nancy knows it wasn’t rape - at least, it wasn’t that Billy raped her. From her memories, she was definitely an eager participant. And yet the feeling of violation, of a loss of autonomy has settled into her, leaving her haunted and scared and sick.

The floor of the tub is so much closer now. Pain shoots up through her knees. She’s fallen, collapsed onto her knees. It hurts. She wants to vomit. There’s an awful hacking sound, and Nancy realizes she’s dry-heaving. Her body keeps acting without her consent - crying, heaving, fucking - and it makes her beat her fist against the shower wall.

“Nancy?”

“I’m fine!” She shouts it harsher than she meant, but she doesn’t want comfort. Not now, not from him, not when she is still struggling to put all the pieces together and come to terms with the big picture. She appreciated it earlier, but now that she’s alone, she wants to wrap that privacy around her like a protective cocoon.

“...tell me if you need anything.” 

The door clicks.

Nancy sags, the tension draining her and leaving her even more wiped out. The water is still blissfully hot, though. She slides around and curls up, hugging her knees to her chest and savors the heat. Soaks it in, prays it leaves her numb. The icy fear in her veins thaws out slowly, but she feels it turning, gradually boiling into anger. 

Hasn’t she been through enough?

Hasn’t Billy?

Haven’t the past few years been full of more trauma and weirdness and horror and suffering than life is supposed to dole out?

Life isn’t fair. She knows that. This is beyond unfair. She’s sick of it. She’s fucking sick of it. Sick to death and full of rage, the kind of rage that makes it easy to fire a gun - even at someone she knows. The kind of rage that makes it easy to bash someone’s face in with a fire extinguisher. The kind of rage that tears itself out of her now in a scream - angry at the helplessness and shame and fear.

If there are any neighbors in the motel, they’re probably calling the front desk or the police. Let them for all she cares. 

Her hands reach forward, fumbling with the knobs, and turns the water off. Her throat feels raw and sore, and she’s left shaky and panting, unable to scream anymore but it did make her feel a little better. She rises unsteady to her feet and carefully steps out, grabbing a towel. It’s too cramped in the bathroom, so she just walks out to dry off.

Nothing he hasn’t seen before.

Billy’s on the bed, head in hands. He’s shaking. Choking, heaving - sobbing. Billy is sobbing on the bed. His face lifts up from his hands, red and wet and puffy, and immediately he turns away. Tension tightens up his chest, his hands balled into fists on his knees. White-knuckled. “Didn’t hear you come out.” His voice is shaky, sounds so much like hers earlier.

Are his memories coming back? Do they feel like hers, distance, detached, like watching someone else living his life, making his choices? Does it remind him of being Flayed? Does it feel like violation for him, too? Did her screaming make him feel like he did that to her?

Nancy comes over and settles on the bed across from him. Wraps the towel around her so she isn’t freezing as water beads down her skin. “What do you remember?”

“A lot, now. And none of it makes sense. None of it...feels real.”

“None of it feels like you, does it?”

Billy’s Adam’s apple bobbed slowly, jaw clenching up. “...no.”

“It’s the same for me.” Wet strands of hair keep falling down into her face. She combs them away, both hands smoothing her hair back and lower to rest holding the back of her neck. “Do you remember when it started? How? That’s the part I’m having trouble with. I remember coming out of the party and us talking. You walking me home. And then...we’re making out in the woods. Stealing a car. Us...on the bed. But it’s how and when and why we start…”

“...that you can’t remember no matter how hard you focus or try to retrace your steps? Backwards, forwards, there’s a giant, blank space in your memories?”

Nancy swallows. Fingers wringing. “Yeah.”

Billy is staring at his hands. He looks haunted. It hits Nancy that while he’s still well-built, he’s leaner than he used to be. There’s an almost hollow look to him. He’s paler, too, that California golden tan fully faded. He isn’t the Billy Hargrove that postured around on Halloween or kept getting in fights for the hell of it. He’s not even the slightly mellower lifeguard that got the job just for the position of authority and showing off his swagger for all the lonely moms in Hawkins.

She’s not the Nancy she used to be, either. She feels like she’s become a different person each year, a different version of herself she has to get to know all over again, only to be forcibly replaced by the Nancy that survives the new horrors that come.

“You didn’t...I mean, I can’t remember how it happened, but I remember enough to know it wasn’t...you didn’t…”

“Rape you, Wheeler?” It comes out harsh and angry. “You sure about that? Cause I’ve fucked girls who regretted it in the morning, and it wasn’t like this. They ran away or they begged me not to say anything or they told me it was a mistake, don’t ever talk to them again. They didn’t sob and dry-heave and scream and act fucking traumatized.” His jaw clenched again, eyes closing. “I’m a lot of things. And I’ve treated most of my fucks like shit. But I’m not a rapist. I don’t...I can’t do that…” All the color drains from his face, giving him a clammy appearance - like he’s on the verge of vomiting. “And after the Mindflayer…”

“Whatever happened last night has left us both feeling sick, Billy. Whatever came over me last night, there was no reason for you to think I didn’t want it or wasn’t in control of my actions.” Nancy hesitates. If this was Steve or Jonathan, she’d have an idea of what to do, what they might want or need. But she isn’t sure what will help Billy - distance or closeness, comfort or commissary. 

To be honest, she isn’t sure what would help her right now, either. Especially with him.

“Get a shower. Despite everything you heard, it did help.” 

He doesn’t move at first, doesn’t speak. Just wipes at his eyes and swallows, maybe swallowing down the urge to puke. The silence stretches out until finally, “Sure. Can’t make me feel worse.”

* * *

By the time Billy’s out, Nancy is dressed, hair mostly dry. It’s a mess, but she doesn’t care. There’s still that lingering confusion and guilt and horror, but it’s become something more malleable. Between the shower and getting dressed and having more time to process, she feels like a million bucks compared to earlier.

Billy looks a little better too when he comes out, towel wrapped around his waist. Skin flushed pink from the hot water. He avoids eye contact and doesn’t say anything as he dries off, puts on last night’s clothes. Even avoids looking at the bed they slept - _ fucked _ \- in. It’s only when he’s fully dressed again that he looks over at her, finally meets her eyes again. “I’m an asshole, and what happened to me didn’t change that about me, at least not as much as Max probably wishes. But, I’m sorry. About this. About shouting at you and the things I said.” He takes in a breath, like he wants to keep talking - maybe he wants to say he’s scared of who he was, who he is, who he might become. Maybe he wants to say he feels like he was raped, and hates it, hates how weak it makes him feel, hates that he might have made her feel that way, too.

Nancy knows he won’t say any of those things, though. She doesn’t need him to, either. He’s done plenty wrong, but like so many of the things that happened over the summer, last night isn’t his fault.

“I’m sorry, too,” she whispers. “Whatever happened, it happened to both of us. Let’s just get out of here.”

He lowers his gaze, turns his head away. There’s a tension in his body still, like he wants to say or do so many things, and at the same time he can’t. “Yeah. Can’t say I ever wanna see this place again.”

They walk outside together, to the bitter cold of winter and harsh light of day. Nancy promises she won’t say anything about the car, and Billy just leaves a tip with the front desk clerk, and they leave it behind. Both afraid to get in there, afraid of what they might remember, of the lingering, musky smell of lust that they’re pretty sure is still clinging to the seats.

Nancy looks back, once, when they go their separate ways. Watches Billy walk off, hands in his pockets, head bowed. She has no idea what she feels in that moment. Too many things to put a name to, most of them not very positive. She has no idea what she’s going to tell Jonathan. She isn’t sure what she’s going to do at all. Besides go home and change and curl up in bed. 

The rest she’ll figure out later.

It’s when she gets home and finds her parents in the living room, news on for some special bulletin, that she finds out about the outbreak of strange vines spread all over Hawkins. Hears the warnings about the pods that grow on them, releasing some kind of dust or pollen that can make people become violent or aroused to an uncontrollable degree.

It’s then when she remembers it. The _ chittering _. The hiss of a pod blooming, unfurling out and releasing that cloud of pollen.

Nancy runs to Mike’s room and demands Max’s phone number and quickly calls, hoping Billy just picks it up. Is surprised when he actually does, though, but grateful. “Billy? Turn on the TV. I remember what happened.”

* * *


End file.
